Calamari.

 

These people sit around me with their meals of glamour and finesse, they’re always laughing when having these pseudo-expensive meals. A chink of glass on glass, metallic clinks as forks and knives devour carcasses and limp vegetables. Not much conversation, still just laughter. The exclusiveness of eating alone is divine, I am my own company, a wallflower poised and alert to watching others be others.
The rain continues to fall, a sliver of water pours from an awning only hitting one spot on the pavement. It falls hard and fast and recklessly, no concern for patrons and without any sign of ceasing. The sound of it richochetes, bouncing and bounding against the glass windows of the cafe.
I hurriedly eat my food, the salt and pepper dancing over my pallet as each bite tears the squid into pieces small enough for my throat. A burst of citrus, the sharp tang, lingers on my lips yet I do not flinch.
No I am not done, do not click that button and ignore this voice in your head. Indulge in another piece of food, I know you’ve forgotten its texture and flavour already, eat, eat, eat. Shovel that rocket leaf into your mouth, the sharpness of the Parmesan will get stuck behind your teeth.
I eat alone but I am not lonely. The boy sits with his father nearby, neither are speaking. That is lonely. That is isolation. That, more than anything, is exclusion. With no communication how can there be progress?
The cider settles at the bottom of my bowels, I feel the fizz and sparkle against my stomach lining. More calamari? I chew through whole rocks of salt, their flavour too much, too much.

Toxic.